


The Potential Is...

by chrundletheokay



Category: It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia
Genre: Canon-Typical Misogyny, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Post-The Gang Gets Romantic, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Season 14 Spoilers, and then the metaphor hit me over the head. much like a foul ball at a game., baseball as a metaphor, but the baseball talk snuck in, erring on the side of caution with regard to the rating, i'm not sure where the baseball metaphor came from, just bc of discussion of adult content, pls let me know if i can or should tag anything else, religious references / talk, s14e01, season 14
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-29
Updated: 2019-09-29
Packaged: 2020-11-01 08:22:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20812034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chrundletheokay/pseuds/chrundletheokay
Summary: Post-"The Gang Gets Romantic." Mac and Dennis have a talk about the idea of Dennis dating. Or not dating.





	The Potential Is...

**Author's Note:**

> [TW: some references to Dennis's trauma, and how it has negatively affected his relationships with women / sex]
> 
> [other than that, nothing out of the ordinary for the show, imho (in my homosexual opinion)]

A Phillies game plays on the TV, the sound on mute. Dennis stares at the screen with glazed eyes, not really taking in what he’s seeing.

Condensation from his beer bottle coats the palm of his hand; he wipes it down the leg of his jeans. From beside him, there’s a low _pop_ as Mac removes his lips from the rim of his own bottle.

Dennis clears his throat. “Can you like… not,” he says, without taking his eyes off the TV. “Uh, not do that anymore.”

Without even looking, he can feel Mac’s gaze on him. Dennis’s leg right twitches and starts bouncing up and down, but he forces it still. He directs all his energy into sitting calmly, with a blank face. He keeps his eyes trained on the TV screen, as if the game actually matters to him. As if this game is any more important than the one the Phillies played last night, or the night before that. As if this game matters any more than the ones being played in dozens of other cities all across the country right now.

Who cares? Baseball can be fun, but it’s not like it means anything.

“Do, uh—What, set you up?” Mac asks. He’s slipped into that particular tone of voice he uses sometimes: wary, but trying to play it cool. Quiet, and just a little higher-pitched than usual. Dennishas noticed it more and more over the last few years.

Mac walks on eggshells around him, and it makes Dennis want to break things. But that would only prove the point, wouldn’t it?

“Yeah.” Dennis’s answer is calm and restrained, just like he himself is. He keeps one hand wrapped tight around his beer bottle, the other gripping onto the arm of the sofa. He’s determined not to break anything tonight.

“Sorry,” Mac mutters. “She seemed pretty cool. Y’know, for a chick, anyway. I really thought you'd like her.”

She wasn’t horrible, but Dennis never was interested in the first place. He wouldn't have been, regardless of the woman. Yet he couldn't bring himself to explain that to Mac — either before the date, or now.

Maybe Dennis isn’t entirely ready to come out. Maybe he isn’t ready to call himself gay — not out loud, and not in so many words. But he is, at the very least, ready to stop pretending. Ready to stop playing the game, or working the D.E.N.N.I.S. System, or whatever the hell Mac is trying to get him to do.

But Mac insisted, and Dennis couldn’t think of a convincing reason to say no.

_You’ll like her, Dennis,_ he’d said, with those soft brown eyes and that cheesy grin and that stupid babyface of his.

So the next thing Dennis knew, he found himself in a café in Old City. He was sitting across from a woman he did not know, and had no desire to know. In a previous life, Dennis might have gotten out of it by insulting her appearance, proclaiming that he was above her, calling himself the Golden God, and storming out of the café. Either that, or he would’ve just given in, and done anything he could to get it over with as quickly as possible — bring out the D.E.N.N.I.S. System, cut the date short, bang her, and never see her again.

It never was enjoyable, though. He spent years — decades, even — waiting for it to make sense, waiting for it to feel good. But it never did. In spite of all the effort he put into perfecting the System, Dennis couldn’t ever figure out what he was doing wrong.

And there must have been _something_ he was doing wrong.

Because it felt amazing in the moment. Like a high. All of a sudden, he felt as powerful and indestructible as he’d always aspired to be. He felt perfect. Like a god. But afterward—

Not so much.

So he kept trying. Eventually, it didn't even feel good in the moment. It didn't feel like anything at all. It was just something to do, and what was the point of that?

But Mac knew none of that. So why wouldn't he set Dennis up on a date with a woman? He thought this was what Dennis wanted. He thought this would make Dennis happy.

But Dennis was decidedly _not_ happy. Not tonight. There was nothing he wanted less than to work the goddamn D.E.N.N.I.S. System. He had no interest in devoting emotional energy into seducing a woman he had no desire to have sex with.

So there he sat in the café, in panicked silence. Judging by the fake smile screwed onto her face, his date wasn’t especially comfortable, either. Dennis searched his mind for something to say. _Anything._

“So the weather, y’know… lately, it’s been _so—”_ Halfway through forcing the sentence out of his mouth, Dennis realized he couldn’t remember what month it was, much less what the weather had been like as of late.

The woman — whose name slipped out of his mind as soon as she introduced herself — visibly cringed.

Here is where Dennis would demonstrate value. Make up a story. Lie about himself. Invent a fake persona. Play a role: Brian LeFevre. Something, _anything._

“I’m gonna go,” he stated instead, ignoring the racing of his heart and the feeling of nauseas shame creeping up his spine.

Back in their living room, Mac readjusts his limbs on the sofa and takes another sip of beer. “I just want you to be happy,” he says. It sounds like an apology, if ever Dennis has heard one.

But who says shit like that? Who talks like that?

“Yeah,” Dennis mutters a reluctant acknowledgement. What is he even supposed to say to that?

There’s a brief pause, then Mac whistles, low and quiet. Out of the corner of his eye, Dennis sees him shaking his head at the TV.

On screen, the batter clutches at his forearm. He’s been hit with a ball, Dennis gathers. Those things go at about ninety miles per hour in the professional league.

Sometimes mistakes come at you hard and fast.

How long does it take to lift a rocket launcher out of a wooden crate? A mere handful of seconds. A flight from Philadelphia to North Dakota? About five hours, but it feels like an eternity. Or like no time at all, depending on how much you’re dreading the arrival, or how desperate and terrified you are to return home.

A ninety-mile-per-hour fastball to the wrist seems preferable, although that may be because Dennis has never been hit by one. Still, it might be a nice change from the ordinary aches and pains of life.

“There’s this guy I banged one time at the Rainbow,” Mac says, seemingly apropos of nothing. Sometimes the most random of bullshit feels relevant in Mac’s mind. “Well—_hooked up with,_ anyway.”

“Okay?” 

“We did Adderall together, which — let me tell you, dude — is _really_ not all it’s cracked up to be. But then he did this _amazing_ thing with his tongue. Like, dude. Dennis. It was _insane._ You would not believe the tongue this guy had. I think he was like, part-dog in a past life.”

“Mac, what the hell are you talking about?”

Dennis is afraid to hear the rest of the story, but surely there’s some kind of context he’s missing. Something that makes this sound less like a fever dream, and more like a story that a normal person would share with their best friend.

Mac pauses for a split-second, and frowns, as if he legitimately has forgotten the point of his story. “Oh,” he exclaims. “He has a sister! The guy with the tongue. They’re actually twins, which is pretty fitting, y’know? ‘Cause you’re a twin, too.”

Dennis has no idea what to say to that. _I’m aware I have a twin,_ perhaps._ Oh, and he does, too? Good for him. What the fuck do I care?_

Talking feels like too much work right now. Dennis drains his beer bottle instead.

“Do you think it’s hereditary,” asks Mac.

“Um.” He searches his memory. His mom talked about this a few times, but it’s been so long. Longer than he wants to think about, although sometimes it feels like no time at all. “I think having twins sometimes runs in families, yeah. Like, some families have a lot of twins in them.”

Mac rolls his eyes so hard his entire head moves with it. He does that now. It’s almost as if, after coming out of the closet, Mac gave himself permission to be overly dramatic about everything. Like he decided to stop repressing the obnoxious dramatic tendencies that had had been lurking under the surface the whole time.

“No, dude, not that,” Mac practically groans. “The tongue thing. ‘Cause if so—”

“Mac, I don’t know, and I don’t care,” Dennis snaps. “I’m not gonna bang the guy’s sister!”

“He’s _super_ hot, though. So I bet his sister is, too.”

“I said _no_, Mac.” Dennis jumps to his feet and storms over to the fridge for another beer. It’s as good an excuse as any to get away from Mac for a minute or two.

An uncomfortable silence falls over the room.

Dennis examines the fridge door. It feels like he’s seeing it for the first time in ages: the mess of magnets, post-it notes, greeting cards, and photos. He drinks, and takes it all in.

At some point, Dennis was this person who lived here and put these things on this fridge. He and Mac slowly curated this collection as they built a life together in this apartment. This used to be Dennis’s life, but it doesn’t seem to fit anymore. It’s chafing.

Looking at all their notes and mementos suddenly feels weird — like looking into a mirror and, for a brief moment, not recognizing himself.

Or like walking into an apartment that smells of fresh paint, expecting something new and different. Except then you look around, and the place looks exactly like it did before the fire. Before it all burned down, before you walked away. But this new version? This perfect recreation bears little resemblance to the apartment you see in your mind when you remember your past life. And it looks nothing like the apartment you see in your dreams and recurring nightmares.

It’s a real mindfuck. Because suddenly, you don’t know what's real, or who you are anymore. You thought you did, but this isn’t it. This place is supposed to be who you are, but it isn’t anymore. And what does that make you? _Who_ does that make you?

From behind, Mac’s sock feet shuffle across the floor.

It’s an eerily quiet night in South Philly, almost as quiet outside as it is in their apartment. Dennis can hear everything: Mac’s feet on the floor, the beer going down his own throat as he swallows, the sound of his own breathing. It’s too much.

Why don’t they ever turn the volume on when they watch baseball? Force of habit, but why?

Oh, that’s right — because Mac always argues with the announcers, and it’s irritating as shit. He shouts like they can hear him. Then, when the Phillies start losing, he blames the announcers for “jinxing” his team with their negative attitude and shit-talking. When things get really bad, Mac takes hold of whatever is within reach, and throws it at the TV.

“I didn’t mean to, dude,” Mac says quietly. Another apology.

Dennis reaches into the fridge and hands him a beer, by way of acknowledgment, or acceptance. He can’t quite force himself to make eye contact, though. That, too, feels like too much. “Whatever,” he rasps.

Mac shakes his head. “It’s not whatever,” he insists. “I’ll stop, okay? I won’t—I won’t set you up anymore.”

Mac pops the cap off his beer and takes a sip. He sits down at the kitchen table and fidgets with the bottle cap — dragging it across the table by his index finger and twirling it around in his hands like it’s the greatest toy ever, like he hasn’t been drinking since he was in middle school.

“I just—Things were kinda weird with us for a while, and I thought—” Mac stammers, then takes a deep breath and finishes in a more firm voice: “I just wanted you to be happy,” he says. “Even if that meant—”

He stops short. It doesn’t seem like he’s going finish that sentence.

It doesn’t matter; it goes without saying. _Even if it meant you being with someone else._

It makes Dennis want to set himself on fire. Since when has Mac been selfless?

No one has ever wanted Dennis to be happy as much as Mac seems to. Not even his parents, when he was a kid. If he thinks about it, his happiness probably never factored into the equation for them.

It’s not the worst thing in the world, knowing Mac feels that way. It’s almost a good feeling — warm and comforting, if Dennis doesn’t think about it too hard. But if he _does_, it feels claustrophobic. It feels dangerous. What's more, it feels stupid to feel so afraid. It shouldn't feel like this. It shouldn't be this hard.

Dennis imagines saying it back: _Mac, I just want you to be happy._ He cringes at the very thought. It feels needy, clingy, and desperate. Desperate for something, but he doesn’t know what. In short, it’s an embarrassing thing to admit aloud. Humiliating, even.

“Did I make it weird,” Mac asks.

Dennis shakes his head. “Nah. It’s not a big deal, man, I’m just kinda… over it, I guess. The whole dating thing. It’s just more trouble than it’s worth.”

“Oh,” Mac says. “Oh. Uh, okay.”

“Women, honestly, are—”

“Yeah,” Mac agrees far too eagerly, “no kidding.” He doesn’t even give Dennis a chance to finish his sentence.

_“People,_ really,” Dennis corrects himself, as alarm bells blare in his head. “Not even just women. People are the worst.”

A big part of him is afraid of where this conversation might go. Mac being Mac, he might think this is some kind of Coming Out Thing. But it isn't. Dennis still isn't ready. Someday he might be, but today decidedly is not that day.

Besides, if Dennis were to come out, it would be nothing like this. It would take place somewhere far more scenic than their dimly-lit kitchen. His words would be eloquent, dramatic, and emotional. Much like Mac’s “gay, gay-ass love story,” Dennis’s coming out scene would be award-winning. It would bring Mac to tears, goddamnit.

If he _were_ to come out, that is.

Or maybe not _if,_ but _when — When_ he comes out.

“Like, honestly,” Dennis continues, conscious that he’s growing more animated with the nervous energy flowing through his veins, “I don’t need any new people in my life. I don’t _want_ any new people.”

“Cause you’re happy with the way things are,” Mac suggests. It sounds like half-query, half-agreement. “Just us; just the Gang.”

“Yeah,” Dennis says with a nod. “And maybe I’m just at a place in my life where I—I need to focus on myself, for once. Really take time for _me.”_

“Oh, like a self-improvement type-thing,” Mac says eagerly.

“If you like.” Dennis shrugs. “I mean, it’s hard to improve on—” He gestures expansively at himself. A year or two ago, he would have finished that sentence with “perfection.”_ Hard to improve upon perfection._

But tonight, he swallows that word down. Speaking things aloud has never made them true.

Of course, keeping things silent has never made them go away, either.

Not even a year ago, he might distract from this uncomfortable feeling by reminding Mac that he is a Golden God. He would say that Mac, of all people, should know gods are perfect, and thus cannot be improved upon.

The Golden God shit feels weird now. Dee has taken to saying it, calling herself a "Golden Goddess." That pretty much ruined it. She sounded so goddamn delusional. Not that _Dennis_ is delusional. Dennis is nothing like his sister, which is why Dee is not a goddess — golden, or otherwise.

“Hey, Den?” Mac says hesitantly.

“Hmmm,” he answers.

“I think that’s—Yeah, I’m glad you’re …  Anyway, that sounds good,” he stutters, as if afraid to misspeak and set Dennis off. “Maybe I won’t—” Mac shrugs, tips his head back and drains the last of his beer bottle. “Yeah, maybe I won’t date, either.”

Dennis laughs faintly. After all those years that Mac spent miserable in the closet, he’s finally come out, and now he’s not going to date? That’s some stupid, self-defeating bullshit.

_You’re not like me, either,_ he wants to tell Mac.

“What?” Mac says defensively. “Maybe I’m happy with the way things are, too. Like, just you and me, a couple of beers, and the Phillies game. It’s like, why would I… Why would I want anything more?”

He doesn’t sound so sure of the last bit, although that’s not surprising. It’s a transparent lie, and Mac’s always been a terrible liar.

Mac _does_ want more. He wants so much; he always has. He does it openly, too. Even when he’s ashamed of what he wants, even when he thinks he’ll be damned for it, everything about him betrays his desperate desires and his even more desperate hopes.

So Mac’s words might say _I don’t want anything more than this, _but his hesitance and his averted eyes say _I want nothing more than you._

It’s there, still. Of course it is. And yeah, Dennis meant it when he said he didn’t want to date. Nevertheless, a small part of him finds reassurance in it. In Mac. There's a minuscule spark of hope — faint, but still warm — nestled just below his God Hole. It feels new, yet familiar at the same time.

Mac’s eyes have found his again. He examines Dennis’s face, as if looking for permission or reassurance that he hasn't said the wrong thing.

Dennis can’t get over how young Mac still looks. It nags at him, a lot like jealousy. Even worse, it overtakes him with the baffling urge to pull Mac close, to refer to him using embarrassing terms of endearment, and to generally make an ass out of himself.

“Dennis? You alright, bro?”

Dennis glances around the room for an answer, a diversion. Something. _Anything_. Anywhere to go from here. There are countless possibilities. If he were to stop and let himself look, he could see them all playing out in Mac’s eyes and on his stupid babyface.

“Yeah,” Dennis answers distractedly.

His eyes land on the TV, still silently playing the game. Dennis can’t read the score from here and has no idea what is happening, except that the Phillies are at bat again.

“Oh shit,” he exhales, and goes with the first story that comes to mind. “Did that foul ball just hit that guy?”

“For real?” Mac exclaims, far too eagerly. He jumps up from the kitchen table and dashes over to the TV, where absolutely no one has been hit by a baseball. With a disappointed and inarticulate mumble, Mac throws himself back onto the sofa “Damn, dude, I can’t believe I missed it.”

“Nah, it’s cool. It just barely grazed him,” Dennis lies. He reaches into the fridge for two more beers. “Anyway, it’s bound to happen again. I feel like more people are getting hit these days, you know?”

“Hey man,” Mac proclaims as he accepts another bottle, “if you can’t take a foul ball, stay outta the ballpark, you know what I’m sayin’?”

“What, you think you can take a ninety mile-an-hour fastball to the skull, dude?”

Mac shrugs. “Sure, why not? I’ll just pray real quick before I go, and God’ll protect me.”

At times like these, Dennis finds himself morbidly curious about the finer points of Mac’s religious delusions. Asking, however, would be opening up can of worms Dennis isn’t prepared to handle. If allowed, Mac would ramble for hours on end, confident that somewhere along the way, he’d say just the right thing to convert Dennis at long last.

If Dennis were open to the possibility of an intelligent debate, he might say this: _What, you think all the people who’ve gotten hit just didn’t pray hard enough? Or did God just not like them?_

“Really,” Dennis says instead. “You think so.”

Mac slurps loudly from his beer. “Yeah, man,” he boasts. “Let’s go to a game. I’ll show you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, dude. I _guarantee_ you I won’t get hit by a ball. And if I do? I’ll walk that shit right off. Like, I really think you’re mis-underestimating the thickness and strong-ness of my skull, bro.”

Dennis closes his eyes for a moment, and shakes his head. If Mac has any positive qualities, command of the English language is not one of them.

“Oh, trust me, I know _exactly_ how thick your skull is,” Dennis retorts.

Mac’s grin is wide and blinding. “Thanks, man,” he says cheerily.

The inning ends, and a commercial flashes across the screen as Dennis waits for his previous comment to sink in. “The most thick-headed person I know,” he mutters.

“Wait. Hang on,” Mac says after a pause. And there it is. “You just called me stupid, didn’t you? That’s what that was. You did, didn’t you.”

Only an idiot would miss that, but it’s okay. Dennis has known that Mac was stupid since the moment they met.

“I’mma take you to the game, bro,” Dennis announces. “And we’re gonna see what happens.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he confirms.

He can’t even remember the last time they went to a game together. The last time they _tried_ was the World Series. That incident, understandably, put them off of the idea of live sporting events for a while. Although, there was that game they attended as Brian LeFevre and Vic Vinegar, accompanied by Dee as Prudence LeFevre. But the last time they went as themselves? As Mac and Dennis? It's been _ages._

Mac's voice cuts into his daydreaming, confident and just a bit too loud: “I’m just saying, Dennis — through God, all things are possible. And also? I can do all things through Jesus, who gives me strength, or whatever.”

“In your _skull? _Strength in your skull?”

“Everywhere, really,” Mac opines. “So you might wanna make a note of that when you’re buying the Phillies tickets.”

“Okay, well, if there’s a comment section on the online ticket store, I’ll be sure to jot that down,” Dennis answers facetiously.

It feels good. It feels like ten years ago, but not. Some things have changed for the better, like Mac being out. Some things haven’t changed at all: like sitting on the sofa, drinking beer, and watching the game. Still other things have changed for the worse, or were broken and have been repaired in some way or another. The apartment, for one. Or eighteen months of distance in North Dakota. Or the scratches on Mac's face, from Dennis's own nails — fully healed. Scratched again, and healed over again.

But Dennis won’t let himself dwell on any of that tonight. Because here they are once more: sitting side-by-side in relative peace, trading banter and insults.

It’s not ten years ago, and it never will be again. But ten years ago wasn’t perfect, either.

Unlike Mac, Dennis doesn’t believe that all things are possible through God. He is, after all, a “godless atheist,” as Mac calls him. But, Dennis thinks, there is definite potential.

And a lot of it, too.

**Author's Note:**

> The Potential Is... A Lot.
> 
> (I don't like giving things titles. Sorry.)
> 
> Find me on tumblr and scream with me pls: @chrundletheokay


End file.
